Spoiler alert: My mom is my hero, and this only tells you the half of it.
When I was 14, my mom changed. It wasn’t a quick change; it took some time. But I could tell it would happen.
We were on our way to the mall desperately ignoring the elephant cramped in the backseat of our Honda civic. The elephant being we had found out the previous night of my father’s infidelity. My parents had gone to lunch that afternoon, where food was picked at and pushed around while my mom told him what she knew. They would announce their divorce to my sister and me a few hours later.
My dad, who never wanted to be the bad guy and was unaware that I already knew, suggested my mom take me to the mall before the big news. You know, because nothing says, “Sorry for the ‘daddy issues,’” like a new outfit.
As we made the trip there and back, I fixated on the uncertainties of the future. And every time, my eyes would fill with tears. Before, I could count on my parents having each other when I left for college. Now how would it be? Would my dad get his own place? Would I only see him on weekends? Little did I know, my parents’ divorce would be far from the typical.
I was still consumed in my thoughts when Spanish artist, Bebe’s song “Ella,” came on the car’s stereo. My mom turned the dial, dancing to the beat, and began singing along— the first clue of my mom’s metamorphosis. I remember thinking, “This is weird.” I figured she’d be listening to sad songs given her marriage of twenty years had just ended.
She smiled at me, still singing along. The lyrics translated are, “Today you’re gonna be the woman that you wanted to be. Today you’re gonna love yourself like no one has known how. Today you’ll look ahead not behind you at what hurt you. A valiant woman, a smiling woman, look how you are, already.” It’s not as catchy in English, but as I heard the words, I understood why it was getting my mom so excited. She was hurting, obviously, as many do when an ending arrives. But it was also the start of a new chapter for her, new opportunities. It was her time to be who she was, the person she had hid for the sake of her marriage so long ago. I gave her a smile back and began singing along with her. It was my way of saying she had my support.
Like I said, the change didn’t happen all at once. The weeks following my dad’s departure, my mom was distant, stressed and scared. It was the first time she was completely alone and in charge of a household. I took it upon myself to find our new apartment, so she’d have one less thing to worry about. I wanted to prove to her that she wasn’t alone.
Gradually, my mom became the person she had once told me about—herself before her marriage. She became fun and determined like the young twenty-something living in Venezuela, who commuted to school from her parents’, majoring in journalism, studying hard in the week, and dancing even harder on the weekends. Nearly ten years after she graduated, she showed how courageous and brave she is when she left everything she knew to move with my dad and her two daughters to the United States for a chance at a better life.
Now, about twelve years later, here she was again: leaving what she knew behind for a chance at a more fulfilling life. She kept working hard, bettering her English every day to get a better job. It didn’t pay that much, so she got a second one. When I’d ask if I could work to help her, she’d refuse, not wanting me to focus on anything but school. I think in a way, despite it all, she likes doing it alone, being independent.
As I write this, it’s five minutes to seven. I hear her unlocking the front door; my dog barks excitedly. She gives me a hug hello before sinking into the couch, taking a deep breath. I set her dinner on the coffee table, and turn on our novela, talking about our day (in between commercial breaks, of course). I can tell she’s tired and almost regret not studying engineering, so she wouldn’t have to work so much. But in the end, she wanted me happy and only writing does that. Having chosen to study journalism over law, my mom understands.
My mom is making this trip possible. Not by funding it or planning it for me because truth is my mom doesn’t have to give me a dime. She has given me everything I need. She gave me the drive and wisdom to work hard and save up, so that I could pay for this trip on my own. She passed down her passion for writing, so I could tell my story and the stories of those I encounter. I hope she realizes that all of my accomplishments are hers too.
As I start this new chapter of my life, I remember the woman who sang at the top of her lungs ready for her new beginning. I can’t help but be grateful I get to leave with the same faith and bravery she carried seven years ago.